Dean's Dream
by sangre antigua
Summary: Dean has a nightmare and Castiel saves him. SECOND PERSON, INEXPLICIT SLASH


**Author:** sangre antigua.

**Rating; Title; Pairing:** T; Dean's Dream; Dean Winchester/Castiel.

**Summary:** Dean has a nightmare and Castiel saves him. SECOND PERSON, INEXPLICIT SLASH

**Warning/Disclaimer:** Do not own _Supernatural. _

DO NOT READ IF YOU DO NOT AGREE WITH/LIKE SLASH.

This is also in second person, so...this is why I did not go all NC-17 on you guys. I didn't feel right writing that, haha. Enjoy!

- - -

YYou've been running for hours now, your calves tight and aching for rest. But you cannot stop; will not stop. You don't have that privilege. Stopping to rest would be a godsend; a gift. You don't deserve gifts, not after what you've done. Not after all of the things you had your grubby, evil little hand in. You deserve to run until you can no longer breathe; until your chest explodes and your muscles lock up. You deserve to be whipped until the ivory of bone shines freely and you're swimming in a puddle of maroon. You deserve to have all of your fingers broken and then cut off; your Achilles' tendons slashes and your bones crushed one by one, and then stranded to die.

You cannot remember why you started running in the first place, but you know that you are being followed. Voices echo all around you, gruff and malevolent. Long claws and a demonic face flowers in your imagination and, if possible, you run even faster. You dart past willowy trees, their roots fat and risen to further tax you, kicking up the moist earth beneath your bare feet. This is a forest, you are sure of it. Trees surround you, hundreds of them, their tops a lavish green. The forest ahead of you is bright and beautiful, something one would conjure up when telling a fairytale. As you run, touching against the trees for support, the most minor of reprieves, the forest around you turns dark and menacing. What was bright and inviting was now bleak and ominous. The touch of your hand kills the trees, as does your general purpose. If your chest didn't feel like it was being steamrolled at the moment, you would feel even worse.

You are not exactly a gentle person, sometimes too coarse for your brother's liking, but you try to preserve life. That is your goal, after all. Get rid of the evil, or as much as you can, for the benefit of all those faceless people and creatures of the world. You are Dean Winchester, older brother, protector, hunter—you preserve life. You are not a bad person.

Not a bad person. Not a bad person. Not a bad person.

Around you, someone—something—cackles. You haven't seen its face, but that doesn't matter. It shifts like nothing you've ever encountered before, the voices changing every couple of minutes. The foreboding tone doesn't change, though. It stays there. This time, you know what form the creature has taken on. Alistair. He laughs again and taunts you. "A good person? Oh, Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean. Didn't your mother ever explain to you how lying was bad?" He cackles again. Suddenly, his voice booms as he bellows, "Oh, wait! She didn't!"

You shiver violently as you run, images flooding your thoughts. Images of Hell, of the tortures you endured and subjected people to. You try your best to block them out, shunning them as you squeeze your eyes shut and chant to yourself a quiet, peaceful mantra. Somehow you feel your way along, stumbling only once or twice, to a clearing.

But as soon as you reach it, you wish you hadn't. The trees are gone. Before you is a warehouse, nondescript and bland, but you feel a weight hit you as you enter. You stumble around, searching over your shoulders frantically. Should you keep running? Have you actually been given a gift? You stop questioning and lean against a wall. It's cold against your skin and the slimy texture of it does not gross you out, but it sends jolts of thankfulness and pleasure through your body.

Your reprieve is squashed by more laughing from Alistair. His face is hidden and his voice sounds far away, so as you scurry around, hiding behind this and that unnoted object, you feel a tiny ounce of relief.

That is squashed by breathing on your neck. How you missed his footsteps, you don't know. But you bolt around, knocking over what you had been hiding behind. Limbs flailing and breathing racing, your stomach knotting and nausea creeping up on you, you look up at Alistair, wishing to look away but being unable to. You are weak on all fronts, your energy used up, and your soul screams, pleads, for you to just give up.

Alistair crouches down and watches, amused, as you scramble away from him. His Cheshire smile scares you as it always has, but your react is so different because you just don't have the strength to cover it up. You would give almost anything to be free of this. Anything. The things you would do and give up astonish you, and again you shun them. You turn your face from Alistair and he laughs maniacally. From behind him, you hear people talking. You hear Sam screaming for you. You hear Jo screaming in general. You hear babies crying.

Your face is forcibly turned. The force is nearly strong enough to break your jaw. You're a little amazed it didn't. "Open your eyes," Alistair laughs. And you resist. The male, the demon, opposite you sighs and rises. You are tempted to look at him, see what he is doing, but you are also so very afraid.

"You're right to be afraid," Alistair coos moments later. Sam's screaming has stopped, but he is struggling so close to you that you can smell his aftershave. "Little boys get punished for not obeying." And with that, the screaming returned, tenfold its former volume. The screams are blood curdling and your eyes fly open. You hop to your feet, your aches and pains on the back burner, as your brotherly duties and instincts kick in.

Sam is against a wall (it hadn't been there before, or may it had—you can't remember) by his throat. Pressure is being applied, but not enough to cut off the horrifying sounds of pain Sam produces. There is a rod in his stomach, three inches in diameter and rusty from the looks of it, though only five or six inches of the pole are actually exposed. The rest is behind Sam, and in him.

Your voice is hoarse as you call his name, and you stumble over your words in fear and rage as you yell at Alistair to free him. It is as if you're not there, as Alistair begins whistling and twists the rod like he is in his own little realm back in Hell. "It's me you want, you dick! Not him!" It's all that you can say without stumbling.

Alistair stops all right. He removes the rod so suddenly that your brother slumps to the floor, still alive but convulsing feverishly, and bashes it against Sam's temples until there's nothing even resembling Sam left.

Shortly after your brother hit the floor, you tumble down, too. It feels as if the rod had been forced through your very heart. You see Alistair in front of you, but you cannot focus on him. He's saying something to you, but you cannot make out the words. There's static in your ears and a knot in your stomach the size of a car.

You have seen him die before, but never like this. The look permanently etched on his face chills you to the bone.

"Should've listened, Dean. Should've listened." Those are Alistair's last words before he disappears. You do not notice his absence, nor the sudden lack of screaming from Jo and the children, not even when you crawl over to your brother and hold his bloody body against your chest. You only notice when your tears are gone and your body is numb, that you are alone in this warehouse with only Sam's body to keep you company.

After a soft fluttering of wings, a hand grips your shoulder and squeezes it tightly. He speaks your name in his docile monotone before peeling you off of your brother. "Dean," he says, shaking you lightly. "Dean, this is just a dream. You have to wake up."

That makes you explode. How could this be just a dream? You voice your thoughts, yelling at him and hitting at his shoulder. Castiel is like a wall, unmovable even under your strong arm, and he will allow you to take as long as you need to vent. When you are done, you are panting against him, gripping to him for dear life.

"This is a dream, Dean. Think about a place that makes you happy," Castiel instructs.

"This isn't a dream!" you cry, and you are incredulous at his indifference to your words.

"Just do it, Dean. Think about a place that makes you happy," he repeats.

You do as he says, grinding your teeth all the while. You think of a quaint little roadside diner that you and Sam passed last week in California. There's an old jukebox playing Kansas and there's a corner booth with Sam beating his fingers happily against the table before him. Across from him is an empty seat and a plate of hot pie. You can't stop the tears from falling; can't stop the relief from hitting you in waves. You turn around to see Castiel giving you a small ghost of a smile.

"I told you. Just a dream." They are the most beautiful words you have ever heard. You, Dean Winchester, lady's man, supernatural hunter, manly man, embrace Castiel in a tight hug. Though the angel often times has the most rigid personality of anyone you have ever met, he is surprisingly soft in your arms. You can hear the cogs working in Castiel's head as he assesses the situation, as he stiffly wraps his arms around your body in return. "Dreams are powerful, but you can overcome them."

The dreamworld around you changes while you're pulling away from him. You are back in your motel room now, completely alone with Castiel's arms still around you. But you are not letting go, and neither is he. "Thank you, so much," you whisper quietly, so quietly that, if Castiel hadn't been an angel, he wouldn't have heard you. But he hears you and tightens his arms around you. You say his name in a manor that resembles a warning, warning him that you do not understand the situation and, thus, you can not be held accountable for your actions.

He simply shakes his head and leans down, your lips connecting with his. They are soft and plump and eagerly moving against your own. And though your manliness urges you to pull away, your lips stay connected and your hands wander aimlessly up and down his back. When you break away, he's searching your eyes feverishly as you do the same. "Castiel...?"

"This is your dream, Dean. Keep dreaming," he instructs, and you kiss him again.

Things travel steadily from there, from where you both stand, to the bed, to the shower and then back to the bed. By the time you are finished, the sun is rising in your dream. Castiel is lying beside you, his arm lifelessly laying on your own.

"You will be waking up soon," he says, his voice sad despite himself.

"You're not just a figment of my imagination, right? I didn't just conjure you up in my mind, yeah?" You hadn't thought of that before, but now that your feelings have been brought to the light and things have been both said and done that you cannot take back, you are worried that your feels will have only been returned in your dreams. "Or am I going mad, fucking an angel like this?" You rub your face in exasperation.

"I am not a 'figment of your imagination', Dean. It is me." The comfort you feel is instant, and you smile as he wiggles next to you. "You will be waking up soon, and I will be there."

When you wake up, Castiel is there, just as he said he would be. Your bed is a mess of sweat and seed, but you play it off when Sam asks you.

"Did you have a nightmare last night? I thought I heard noises," Sam asks, toweling off in the bathroom.

"Uh...nah, Castiel stopped by last night and I dropped something when he woke me." Castiel's ghost of a smile was brilliant and contagious, and you couldn't help it but to catch it. "Actually, I had a good dream last night. It involved...uh, pie. Speaking of which, breakfast. Now."


End file.
